


Frayed connections

by Demon_bird



Category: The Letter (Visual Novel)
Genre: F/M, I wanted to try to to make it work with the ending, If you look into Lilies, Post-True Ending, Sadness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-11
Updated: 2017-09-11
Packaged: 2018-12-26 10:42:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,592
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12057318
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Demon_bird/pseuds/Demon_bird
Summary: Isabella didn't smile anymore, and it bothered him





	Frayed connections

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try to make a fic that worked with the true ending, as much as I really want the two to have a happily ever after (no really!)....

Steven sometimes hated his job, if only for the briefest of moments. It wasn’t like it was hard or mindnumbingly boring, if anything his friends would always say that they were jealous of it. Being able to work only a few hours a week for a decent, livable salary was something he wouldn’t ever gripe about, even if there were always a few weeks where his social life went to hell. No, it was his boss. She wasn’t a bitch or demanding, quite the opposite, but it was more a problem he had when it came to her. With her melancholy gaze, she had a soft, hazy glow about her, like sunshine through a cloudy sky. If his talent was better, he would have attempted to catch it in a painting, catch her attention. Thus the problematic part of working for her; He was madly, utterly entranced by her.

He had even admitted it to his friends and then hers, even though her two friends had figured it out when he hung around her more then was needed. She had turned him down that day, in that studio, her eyes not staring at him but at that blasted painting. It may have been the jewel in her portfolio, but there was always SOMETHING about that picture that made him want to torch it. If it wouldn’t have had him winding up in jail, he would of, but he settled for working on convincing her to let it go out on tour. The few times he was successful, however, it felt like her work got darker, as if her soul had been sucked away. And no matter how lackadaisical he was with making sure with that one painting returned, even leaving it off the shipping forms, it always returned. Ugh, it was like a poisonous weed, one he wanted to get away from her soon. It didn’t help that, after the day of his failed confession, it always seemed like the man in the painting was glaring. He didn’t know the guy’s name, but he hoped that the bastard rolled around in his grave. He didn’t know his name only that his nickname was Ash, nor what happened to him, but he did know that he served as a roadblock for Isabella’s happiness, and maybe his own.

* * *

She had asked him to pick up her mother today from the airport. Something about her mama finally badgering her into letting her visit. Steven didn’t mind much, though he did worry it would make her miss her deadline, but it wasn’t hard to recognize the woman. Mama Santos looked like her daughter, if the serenity and sadness was replaced with a weary look and a quiet resolute will. The smile reminded him of Isabella’s when she looked at that damn painting, but it was more strained, having never left her home country before. He approached the woman and the unease disappeared, but as they drove through the countryside, he noticed that something that looked like worry crawled back on her face. He didn’t bother with small talk though, it didn’t look like she wanted to talk. His first stop was the studio, but the lights were off, so he moved onto to the small cramped apartment in Salemwell. The lights were still on this late, which sent his warning bells off.

This was another puzzling fact about Isabella. She earned enough to live in a better apartment but she refused to move away. She had briefly moved out during college he heard, but came right back, to her apartment once it was vacated, and remained here with a friend of hers next door. A knock on the door went unanswered, before he pulled out his cellphone, hearing the faint buzz from inside, and dread began to worm into his stomach. Turning on his heel, he banged on said neighbor’s door before Isabella’s mother could start to worry. The pink haired woman didn’t like him, that’s for sure, but there must have been something on his face that stopped the immediate tongue lashing. Her eyes darted from him to Mrs. Santos, and she retreated back into her apartment, coming back out with the keys. The door was slammed open and a cry of horror ripped itself from Mrs. Santos’ throat. On the floor, looking as pale as death, was her daughter, the shattered shards of a mug dangerously close to impaling her if she moved. His phone jumped into his hand as he ran out of the room, calling the emergency line. He explained everything to the EMT on the other line, but part of him heard something troublesome from the room.

“Maria, why didn’t you tell me? Oh, Darling, what is going to happen now?”

* * *

Steven stormed through the halls, canceling one show after another, teeth quietly grinding at the uncertainty. His team was all buzzing in their various offices, unsure of what was going on. Apparently Little-miss-idiot failed to mention that all her various appointments with a doctor had a purpose. Upon digging through her drawers, many of the times she went out for ‘research’ was for doctors. Her liver had been devouring itself, rotting from the inside, Necrosis. Her very blood became a poison for her, slowly and painfully devouring her.  Caught earlier? She would be hooked to tubes but at least she’d live. But this late and her organs were damaged, meaning it would be a bloody toss up if she could recover. All they could do was hook her up to the machines and buy fucking time. Her mother had insisted she’d stay, but Isabella had somehow convinced her that her siblings needed her more. It had taken her neighbor, Rebecca, promising to watch over her to get the woman to go home on a very expensive ticket.

* * *

Months passed and she wasn’t fairing much better. Isabella forced herself to stay standing long enough to finish paintings and commissions, before collapsing in exhaustion, with that fucking painting remaining looking on. It made him sick, but one night, where it became clear that she wasn’t getting better at all, his rage became irrational and he set the thing on fire. But she didn’t get angry, she didn’t get mad, she didn’t even react (though Oh lord, Rebecca with a Book, any book but in this case an art anatomy boo, was downright terrifying). She sighed, before asking him to buy a new canvas. Part of him was afraid she’d just recreate the picture, but when it became clear that the Grecian columns and hanging ivy was being sketched out, he relaxed. Wistfully, he imagined that she would move on, get better, but then he realized that those faint smiles never reappeared. With each day, the life seemed to trickle away from her, her brush strokes becoming shorter and sloppier. It was a far cry from before, where each stroke was precise as to not waste any paint, but the look in her eyes made him stop, and when he did take the brush once, she kicked him out of her studio for a week.

* * *

The new work was beautiful, a mix of scenic flowers and a darkness of sort. News buzzed around the latest piece, possibly her last piece, and investors snarled over who purchase said piece. But Isabella just ignored them, her brush laying out a scene of the Elysian Fields. Dread slithered in his veins, as his fears were realized and the outline of a familiar male figure began to take form. His hand itched to ruin it, but as quickly as it began, Steven excused himself from the room. A week later, he received the call he both dreaded and wished for. The hospital had scrubbed away all the paint flecks and granite dust from her, leaving her as sterile as the rest of the room she lay in, wires measuring her heart beat, as weak as it was. Beside her bed were two worried figures, one was the terrifying woman the other he recognized as the one time horror savant that Isabella had worked with for his movie. He froze at the doorway, before turning, making an excuse of making a phone call. She barely made it long enough to say goodbye to her mother and family, and he didn’t stay to listen to the wails of children and women.

After she had been laid to rest, ashes stored away to be shipped back to her homeland, he visited her studio. Her collection of works to be sold at auction and the majority proceeds given to the family, since her will did not dictate what would be done with any unsold pieces. The lights flickered on and he methodically got to work, cataloging and submitting each piece until he got to her final piece. Unearthly Vibrant flowers filled the canvas, casting the lovers on the painting in their light. He knew the idea behind it, Persephone and Hades in the underworld, Isabella had explained as much, but instead of many of the classical pieces that depicted her escape and eating the seeds, this showed perhaps an alternate interpretation. The two lovers stared into each other’s eyes, as if seeing each other after a prolonged separation, and nothing else had mattered. Chuckling, he tapped one finger to the female’s cheek.

“Well, here’s to hoping your happy now. I’ll be sure to toast to you two, where ever you are.” Shaking his head, he crossed out the final picture, he’d leave that for the scary book lady to deal with.

* * *


End file.
